


a commonplace lack of insight

by pennyofthewild



Category: Haikyuu!!, Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Absolute Silliness, Chronic Illness, Crossover, Future Fic, Gen, Hospitals, doctor!midorima - Freeform, genfic, jazz hands, the chronic illness is more of a self-inflicted sort i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the thrilling saga of a boy who does not wish to see a doctor but is made to see one anyway.</p><blockquote>
  <p>Tooru’s first thought on seeing his doctor is <i>what the fucking hell</i>, which he immediately puts away in favor of extending a hand, grinning a pleasant (and charming!) greeting, and hopefully presenting a brilliant first impression – thereby attempting to ensure that the doctor’s sympathies will lie with his own account of his condition, and not Iwa-chan’s exaggerated one. </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	a commonplace lack of insight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carafin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carafin/gifts).



> dear lin,
> 
> i'm sorry
> 
> love,  
> penny
> 
> p.s. ironic summary is ironic, please do not take this seriously, and this fic can also be read (and reblogged) from [**[here]!**](http://pennysdrabbledump.tumblr.com/post/119338151641/a-commonplace-lack-of-insight)

 

 

Halfway through their second semester at university, Iwa-chan, in an act of Ultimate Betrayal, contrives with one of their team managers to set Tooru an appointment with a doctor. In order to ensure the success of his plans, Iwa-chan remains uncommonly quiet about this act of treachery until the last moment necessary, and so Tooru does not find out until he is quite literally in the train on his way to see said doctor, and then only because Iwa-chan grows tired of fending off Tooru’s near-constant, plaintive wails of _where are we going, Iwa-chan, why won’t you_ tell _me_?

Tooru reacts to the news with a characteristic show of dramatics, proclaiming, _et tu, Brute?_ with such gravitas as to alarm the lovely old lady sitting by him (knitting a pair of blue socks), even though she was probably unaware of the particulars of what had been said, on account of it having been declared almost entirely in poorly-pronounced Latin.

“Shut up,” Iwa-chan tells him, in a tone Tooru would have considered unforgivably rude from anyone else, “we’re in _public_ , Crappykawa, and you are _embarrassing_.”

He proclaims this last statement the way a long-suffering mother might, at the sight of her toddler throwing a tantrum on the floor of a train compartment. Tooru is torn between amusement and righteous (in his opinion) annoyance, because here he is missing volleyball practice for a doctor’s appointment he _does not_ need, and what if today is a day scouts from a pro team come a ’calling? – not that Tooru has missed _every_ opportunity to be present in the attendance of a club scout, but so far results have been rather disappointing –

– which, of course, Tooru thinks, is not unexpected; Tokai is an eminent university, in the volleyball world, and there are a great many gifted players – geniuses, the small, bitter voice in his mind reminds him – on the team, and so it is no real surprise that a passably talented boy (who is definitely not a genius) from a small town in Miyagi has yet to – despite being on the first string – join the _starting_ roster –

– but still, all the more reason for Tooru to be back in the gymnasium, and not wasting valuable time he could otherwise spend practicing to improve, in the hope that one day – .

“I seem to remember leaving my mother behind in Miyagi, Iwa-chan,” Tooru sniffs, giving his best-friend-turned-traitor a glare, which is somewhat ruined by the embarrassing way his voice cracks, mid-sentence, “what happened to bodily autonomy, and all that?”

Iwa-chan flinches, slightly, which makes Tooru feel – momentarily – guilty, before he steels his nerves and squares his shoulders, “bodily autonomy is not an issue, here, because I am keeping you from continuing to hurt yourself,” and he glances, pointedly, at Tooru’s knee brace, as if Tooru has somehow managed to forget it exists.

As usual, Tooru’s throat tightens up, with the unwelcome reminder. That the human body is a fragile construct is no alien concept to Tooru, who has dealt with more than his fair share of cuts and bruises and (irreparable) injuries throughout his (admittedly short) volleyball career. Usually, however, he elects to ignore said weakness, in favor of looking forward – because, of course, he is extremely aware that through enough diligence, and determination, natural limiters _can_ be overcome –

Tooru finds, in the face of Iwa-chan’s misplaced concern, that the train compartment is suddenly too small, and strangely confining, despite the large-paned glass windows looking out over the open, metal-jungle-expanse of Tokyo, rapidly moving by.

“Have you always been this overbearing, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, as lightly as he is capable, given the lump in his throat, and the nausea churning in the pit of his stomach, “or is this a recent development I hadn’t noticed?”

There is a part of Tooru – a relatively quiet part, that often goes ignored – that is grateful for Iwa-chan’s concern, because it recognizes that the concern is not unfounded, and that Tooru does, perhaps, require some … assistance, ignorant though he may profess to be –

But the larger part – the part that woke up just yesterday morning drenched in sweat following a vivid play-by-play of his last match with Ushiwaka – shrugs it off (or, rather, tramples it down), dismissing the thought as baseless.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Asskawa,” Iwa-chan says, voice pitched low on the insult, for the benefit of Tooru’s neighbor (and his, who is in fact the mother of a – currently sleeping – toddler), “and that you’re grateful for my looking out for you, seeing as you are entirely incapable of doing so yourself. Missing one practice won’t kill you, but being thrown onto the rail-tracks will, and I’m afraid that might be the course of action I will be forced to take if you continue to be completely ridiculous, number one setter or no.”

And Iwa-chan crosses his arms over his chest, as if to remind Tooru that he is perfectly able to carry out his threat.  

 

***

 

Tooru’s first thought on seeing his doctor is _what the fucking hell_ , which he immediately puts away in favor of extending a hand, grinning a pleasant (and charming!) greeting, and hopefully presenting a brilliant first impression – thereby attempting to ensure that the doctor’s sympathies will lie with his own account of his condition, and not Iwa-chan’s exaggerated one.

He – the doctor – doesn’t seem to be very much older than Tooru himself; probably in his late-twenties, by Tooru’s estimate. What he _does_ seem is incredibly eccentric – or, at least, not in possession of much of a fashion sense, because he is dressed in an orange button-down that clashes terribly with his green hair and an equally out-of-place striped tie. Tooru is inclined to think eccentric, however, because there is also a large stuffed penguin sitting on his desk, and a framed chart of the twelve signs of the zodiac, proclaiming _Man Proposes, God Disposes_ in bold, serious print, on his wall. He looks up from his computer long enough to shake their right hands with his, and give them both a nod and a polite smile.

“Have a seat, please,” he says, in a voice rather like his handshake – cool and dry – “I will be with you in a moment,” and returns to his keyboard.

As they are sitting down, Tooru is about to ask Iwa-chan – in whispers, of course – if he is sure this is a doctor’s office, and not a fortune-teller’s tent, but then he remembers that he is supposed to be upset with Iwa-chan, and remains quiet.

He studies the pattern on the floor tiles, instead, and casts a perfunctory glance over the rest of the room – thick-spined books, on a shelf, a set of _Nature Japan_ magazines between the chairs set in front of the doctor’s desk.

The doctor – there is a nameplate set on the surface of his desk, announcing him to be _Midorima Shintarou_ – finishes clicking away on his keyboard and turns back to face them.

“Alright,” he says, “which one of you is Oikawa Tooru-kun?” He sounds very much like a strict schoolteacher, albeit one attempting to be kind. Tooru has to resist the urge to put up his hand.

“That’s me, sensei – this is my friend, Iwaizumi Hajime,” and he smiles, again, brightly. Tooru finds that it is hard to smile _just_ right – the smile has to be wide enough to crinkle his eyes, but not too wide, or he’ll end up looking like an idiot. Iwa-chan thinks Tooru is ridiculous for overthinking something so simple as smiling, but Tooru knows the importance of the right gesture at the right time.

Midorima-sensei, it turns out, isn’t the sort of person to let on if he is impressed; he just nods, again, and says, “Midorima Shintarou,” and adds, almost in the same breath, “would you like Iwaizumi-kun to remain in the room with you, Oikawa-kun?”

It takes Tooru a moment to process the statement. It occurs to him that there is very little about him Iwa-chan does _not_ know, and that he’d come to take the full disclosure for granted.

“I don’t mind,” Tooru says.

“Well then,” Midorima-sensei smiles, again, folds long-fingered hands over his desk. It is a brief expression, and gives off the impression that he isn’t used to smiling, much, but Tooru – who is no stranger to insincere smiles, thinks that it is probably genuine,  “– how may I help you today, Oikawa-kun?”

“Actually, sensei,” Tooru says, lifts his eyebrows, thoroughly innocent – though he gives Iwa-chan a _look_ out of the corner of his eye, “the trouble is that I don’t, in fact, need any help at all.”

Iwa-chan shifts, in his chair; glancing at him, Tooru can see Iwa-chan is trying very hard to resist the urge to interrupt, though, of course, he’d rather die than admit it.

Across his desk, Midorima-sensei does not change expression. There is a moment of silence, during which Tooru enjoys Iwa-chan’s (deserved) torment and Midorima-sensei – evidently – waits for Tooru to continue. Tooru thinks, privately, that there is no point in continuing, and really, he should be allowed to leave now. If they make it to the station within ten minutes, he can be back on campus in time for the last hour, at least, of practice, and the day will not have been a total waste of time.

Apparently, there is some higher being that does not care about Tooru’s wishes or opinions, and so, after several moments have elapsed – but not so many that the silence grows awkward – Midorima-sensei says, mildly, as if Tooru is not the first person to walk into his office with a mistaken idea of their own health,

“Do you wish to elaborate on that?”

 

***

 

Several minutes later – much earlier than Tooru would have expected –  he is seated on the gurney at the back of the room, feet dangling almost a whole foot off the ground. The paper sheet covering the white bedsheet had (rather noisily) crumpled under his weight, when he’d hoisted himself up onto the mattress, and now Tooru is acutely aware of every rustle (and new wrinkle) each time he moves, even the slightest bit.

The reason for the quick progression from the interview to the physical becomes apparent as Midorima-sensei begins his examination; he continues asking questions, even as he is taking Tooru’s pulse, or holding the stethoscope against Tooru’s back, under his shirt, listening to him breathe.

“I understand you are an athlete,” Midorima-sensei says, when he has removed Tooru’s knee guard and is occupied with pressing his fingers against Tooru’s knee – watching Tooru’s face with shrewd-looking green eyes. His fingers are cool, Tooru notes, which must mean that a) Tooru’s knee is warm or b) the doctor’s hands are cold, and he surprises himself by hoping it is the latter.

“I am,” Tooru says, and bites back a little hiss of pain when the doctor moves his leg. Unfortunately, the cover-up does not go unnoticed.

“Volleyball, was it,” Midorima-sensei murmurs, and adds, “you are in pain right now, aren’t you, Oikawa-kun?”, again, perfectly level, even though Tooru had insisted, earlier, that he was perfectly fine right now, thank you very much.

“Not so very much pain, no,” Tooru says, supplementing this claim with another bright-eyed smile, ignoring Iwa-chan, who, in the far corner of the room, is rolling his eyes at Tooru’s display of bravery.

“Have you increased the intensity of your practice routine, lately?” Midorima-sensei inquires, while he is examining Tooru’s good knee.

“Not particularly,” Tooru tells him, which is actually true, in a manner of speaking.

Iwa-chan, who is apparently fed up – having lasted longer than Tooru thought he would – interjects, now, declaring, “Oikawa’s always worked harder than he should,” with a fierce sort of glare in Tooru’s direction, as if daring him to argue, “he’s never been a good judge of what is too much.”

“As always, Iwa-chan, you make my positive qualities seem like the most terrible faults,” Tooru says, pursing his lips. Iwa-chan, unsurprisingly, ignores him.

Midorima-sensei, having paused to scrawl something onto the file he has open on his desk, returns, now, and gestures at Tooru’s shirtsleeves, which hit his hands somewhere between his wrists and fingers. “Do you mind if I roll those up, for a moment?”

Phrased like that, Tooru is tempted to say that yes, he does mind – but he also wants to finish up here as quickly as he can, and, like in most other aspects of life, acquiescing to the doctor’s (or indeed, any other authority figure’s) wishes seems to be the fastest way to do so – so, instead, Tooru nods, and rolls up his left sleeve while Midorima-sensei folds his right up past his elbow.

Midorima-sensei’s gaze is heavy, almost palpable, Tooru’s collection of mottled bruises (the oldest about a week old) blanching under the pressure of his fingers, but unexpectedly free of any sort of censure, which Tooru supposes to be a kind of small mercy. Iwa-chan, in the corner, is not so composed; he seems to be staring determinedly at the floor, as if nothing else is worth his attention.

“Are all of these from practice, Oikawa-kun?” Midorima-sensei asks, finally, holding Tooru’s gaze, eyes strangely … _kind_ , behind his glasses, and Tooru feels his throat clench up again, the way it does whenever Iwa-chan (openly) expresses concern for Tooru’s wellbeing.

“Battle scars, sensei,” Tooru says, which is probably a rather pathetic attempt at a joke, and he hopes he does not sound as choked-up as he feels.

The pathos of the moment is almost immediately ruined by Iwa-chan, who snorts, indelicately, into his fist, belatedly thinking to disguise the sound as a cough, which, of course, only serves to highlight his opinion. Tooru sighs, internally.

Midorima-sensei makes another note, and proceeds to wash his hands, informing Tooru that he can return to his chair, if he likes.

Tooru sits next to Iwa-chan, and resists the urge to fidget.

Midorima-sensei dries his hands and returns to his own seat. Tooru’s file is still open on his desk, but it is a little too far for Tooru to make out what he has written.

“Well, Oikawa-kun,” Midorima-sensei says, finally, as if he is continuing a conversation, “what do _you_ think is the matter – if there is, in fact, anything the matter?”

Nearly fifteen minutes have elapsed since Tooru entered the office, and he is beginning to feel like he would like nothing better than to leave. He lifts his shoulders, lets them drop.

“Overtraining, I guess,” he says, meeting the doctor’s eye squarely, and the admission leaves him feeling slightly empty, as if he has somehow conceded defeat.

Tooru feels Iwa-chan – sitting in the next chair – relax, shoulders loosening.

“And I am sure you are aware of the consequences of continuing blindly down the same path,” Midorima-sensei says, as if he isn’t quite sure Tooru does.

Tooru bites the inside of his lip, to keep from doing something like sighing. “I presume you mean,” he says, careful to sound easy, and cheerful, “not being able to play at all, instead of just poorly.”

Midorima-sensei taps his fingers against his desk. “I think, Oikawa-kun, that at present, your greatest ailment is probably a lack of insight.”

“Excuse me?” Tooru blinks, taken aback.

Midorima-sensei smiles. “Oikawa-kun, do you know what happens to muscle during the course of strenuous activity?”

A pause – and Tooru begins to understand where Midorima-sensei is headed. “Micro-tears,” Tooru says, finally, grudging, “in the fibers.”

“And,” the doctor begins, voice exceedingly gentle, “did you not think that maybe, if you gave yourself the time to rest and heal, to give your body the respite it deserves, it might reward you better?”

 

***

 

Tooru leaves the office with a prescription for “pain and inflammation” and a “referral to orthopaedics, for a more detailed evaluation of your knee” as well as a “follow-up appointment in two weeks, to see if you’re making good on your promise to take rest days, as we discussed.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Oikawa-kun?” Midorima-sensei says, as he is seeing Tooru and Iwa-chan to the door.

“There is one thing, sensei,” Tooru says, after a moment of feigned contemplation, “ – though I think it would fall into the category of public services.”

Iwa-chan says, “ _Oikawa_ ,” in a tone dripping with _don’t-you-dare_ , but Midorima-sensei nods, so Tooru continues, flippant,

“Only that you promise not to wear such vividly orange shirts, sensei – ”

– “Tooru,” Iwa-chan hisses, vehement –

“ – because orange is a great color, and green is also – a great color, but together – ”

“Please forgive him, sensei,” Iwa-chan interjects, horrified, “he’s an idiot, I am so sorry – ”

He trails off, probably because the doctor is smiling again – a somewhat terrifying smile, if Tooru is completely honest –

Midorima-sensei removes his glasses, wipes the lenses, places the frames back on his nose.

“Well then,” he says, gravely, “it’s a shame; I do love this shirt, but - in the interest of providing a public service, as you so put it, I will do as you say –  but only on the condition that _you_ keep the promise you made me.” He holds out a hand, then –  as if to say, _shake on it_ – still smiling, and he adds, long cool fingers wrapped around Tooru’s, the grip firm, “I will hold you to it,”

– and Tooru – ignoring Iwa-chan’s protests of _the hell were you thinking_ and _you are such an embarrassment_ finds himself wondering exactly who had come out at the better end of the deal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

end.


End file.
